These Empty Spaces
by Anti-canon
Summary: Sometimes they are just too tired to sleep. Part One of my A Place to Rest My Head series


Honestly, you've always hated running.

Even before it was associated with all the mistakes you'd made, all the wrong that's come into your life, it was never something you did with any amount of pleasure. You'd never been able to breathe correctly, always getting a stitch in your side just minutes after starting, and the pounding of your feet often moved to mirror the throbbing headache that would inevitably come to accompany the shooting pains.

But now it feels as though it's all you do, all you're good at. Your run to try and save what little pack you have left, run to protect the people you dragged into this, and tonight you run to try and preserve your sanity. You take off without any destination in mind, just trying to get away from your obligations, from the all the problems that you made for yourself. So you run until your lungs scream and your muscles tremble and your brain can focus on nothing but the aches in your body, until it's begging for you to let up and finally give in to the exhaustion.

Your ragged breathing makes sharps pricks of pain along your ribs and reminds you that you're still alive, that you've not lost yourself to the endless mire of self-loathing that always sits just beneath the surface. It's what keeps your grounded, keeps you going. Your legs burn, your feet twinge, and you can feel the hot itch of tears running down your cheeks- though at this point you can't quite process what that means.

It is at this point that you begin to slow, that your body starts to give in. Then, and only then, you can collapse and let yourself sink into a blissful oblivion. It is the one time that you don't have to think about all you're trying to do, all you've already done. You gaze up at the stars and their twinkling faces stare straight back. Every few seconds the cloud of your breath obscures them and for just a second you have the irrational fear that they will be gone once it clears. They are one of the few things that stay constant in your life, always there, always watching. It's oddly comforting.

The dead leaves itch at your skin and the cold ground is hard and unforgiving, but you can't find it in yourself to try and move somewhere more comfortable. Instead you clutch at a handful of them and slowly grind them in your fist. When you unclench your hand the wind picks up the remnants and casts them into the air. The way they drift and float is mesmerizing, and immediately you repeat the action before they can disappear from sight.

Eventually you run out of leaves, out of distractions, and you're forced to come back to yourself, to remember it all. Slowly, you sit up and look around to gather your surroundings. A pained cry breaks free when you realize.

That _fucking _house.

Of course you would end up here. You gravitate towards it without thinking, its black presence constant and unrelenting. A piece of you was left here, can never be returned, and you think that it's that empty space inside you, reaching out, searching, that always brings you back. You hug your knees to your chest and for a while all you can manage is to stare at it, contemplate its threatening loom.

As always it draws you forward, calls to you, dark and poisonous, yet still alluring. Like the sickly sweet singing of a blade it speaks of danger but enthralls with its eerie beauty. The steps groan beneath your feet, the doorknob creaks under your hand, and the hinges give a ghostly sigh. You can never convince your heart to give up the hope it grasps on to, every time you open that door thinking they might just be behind it, waiting for you. It still hurts when all you see is ash and dust and rot, but it's a familiar sort of pain that you know how to neatly tuck away.

It doesn't stop you from walking the whole house, checking every room for some sign that you aren't alone. The wood splinters easily against your fingers when you drag them across the wall, but you feel like if you don't hold on to something you'll simply fade away, be lost to it all. You can't afford to let yourself be numb, to leave it all behind.

It's draining, being here. The memories, the guilt, the sadness all weigh you down, make your movements sluggish and your thoughts stutter. You make it to the room that used to be yours before you have to lie back down. You can still see the stars through the hole in the roof, but it's not the same. Now you're staring at them through the bars of a prison, viewing the outside world while knowing that you can never truly be a part of it.

You close your eyes, but you do not sleep.

* * *

Your house never really feels like a home anymore.

It was always hers and when she left, she took the idea of it with her. Now you and your father hold onto the place desperately, thinking that it might be the only thing keeping you together. Neither of you will ever admit it, though you both know it's there. Most of the time you're too busy to notice what's missing, too involved in just trying to keep everyone alive the best that you can, and even then you spend as much time away as you can manage so when you get back there's no room for any of it to sink in. But on nights like this, it's almost too much to bear.

Nobody needs you, right now nobody wants you and so you've given them the time to just be. Alone or together, they all know how to exist wholly and completely without you. You wish you could say the same of yourself. You don't know what to do, what to be when someone isn't asking it of you. It's a little frightening to think about, so you don't.

Instead you take note of the silence, somehow deafening in all its disparity. It's not the kind of quiet that you're always looking for, that lucidity where your mind is finally at rest and you feel comfortable in your skin. It is this empty white wash that sends a chill down your spine and makes your skin itch. Desperately you try to fill this pressing void with the sound of the television, the stereo, your own voice, but it just takes and takes and takes and you are still left hollow. The reverberations don't fill you up, just vibrate against your skin, a static hum that quickly frays your nerves.

You feel heated, drunk, sick in its wake and you force yourself up the stairs and into the bathroom. Feverish, you draw a cool bath and don't bother to strip before lowering yourself in. It's a shock to the system- your lungs jumping the second you submerge and your skin coming to life. The cold leaves you feeling open and raw, but like you've just been bled and a poison has been chased from your body. It's hard to take a full breath and you can feel your extremities growing numb, but as your head slips beneath the surface, everything seems to finally settle. Your body, your thoughts, the world is suspended here under the water and for a second, things are clear.

Small pinpricks of pain blossom all across your skin and you can feel a tugging at the bottom of your lungs, but you're not ready to come up yet. There's a kind of simplicity here that is so alluring, so easy to want. You close your eyes and let your body float, loving the way that you are enveloped, the feeling of existing poised on the edge of something, but not quite there yet. All the worries, all those mangled feelings, the never ending problems that plague your every waking second are still there, but they're out of reach.

You wish you could stay, wish you could allow yourself this _one _concession. It's a dark sort of thought that you don't allow yourself that often, but won't repress. Sometimes you want to be selfish, wish it came easier to you, think that you really could be if you wanted to. But in the end it always remains just that- an idle thought of an idle mind that has far more important things to be pondering. So you breach the water and take in a ragged breath. It is more painful than you can imagine. Every time.

You step out, release the drain, and peel off your clothes with a mindless efficiency. You wring out the fabrics in the sink as best you can and hang them on the shower rod before drying yourself off and ambling into your room. You don't bother turning on any lights and only slip under the covers because you know you'll regret the slip in modesty tomorrow morning.

Your bedding smells sickly sweet and you know that your dad still hasn't quite figured out the correct way to use fabric softener. Before they used to have that crisp fragrance that was just light enough to make you chase it deeper into the blankets, but still let you drift off to sleep. Now you just wrinkle your nose and flip over on to your back so it isn't quite such an assault. You stare at your ceiling for hours, feeling exhaustion down deep in your bones, but soon the abstract patterns grow frustrating, taunting.

You close your eyes, but you do not sleep.

* * *

**A/N: Eyurgggh! What even is this? I don't know. :\ I was thinking about writing something for the fanfic contest and this is what churned out. I don't know how to feel about it or what to do with it. :P**

**Initially I had planned to write one more bit at the end where they ****_finally_**** fall asleep next to each other (not really in a romantic fashion but maybe working up to it) but it wasn't working how I wanted it to, so I just chopped it off.**

**Anyways, I'd love to hear what y'all think about it, truly. I need halps.**


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